Exit Alpha (9 page)

‘Check.’ One rating pointed down. ‘Guy was carrying her. Said she’d fainted.’

Zuiden had dropped her on the noisy island walkway without the others even seeing it. Accurate pressure on the carotid sinus was all it took. Cain, using the rails, half-slid down more ladders. If Zuiden was carrying her he wouldn’t have got far.

He was on the level below the flight deck before he saw them — at the far end of a passageway running athwart the ship. Beyond hurrying sailors and air-crew, he glimpsed the flash of Zuiden’s back with the woman like a sack over his shoulder. He ran after them, past cabins and ready rooms, pushing past the crew.

At the end, the passage split and a ladder rose through a trunk. It was a three-way choice. He took the ladder.

A light trap brought him out into the wind and darkness near the waist of the vessel on the catwalk that ran around the flight deck. He turned away from the sea which foamed 60 feet below the overhang — faced the island across the deck which was level with his chest. It was alive with light-wands and launching planes.

Where the hell were they? Up here? He dodged past reels of hoses, heading forward.

On the deck, a Tomcat — wings spread, flaps set, exhaust gases shimmering — was moving toward the catapult shuttle. As it paused, inching forward, a blast shield rose from the deck behind it.

A yellow-jacketed officer held his wands crossed above his head while red jackets did something to the missiles on the pylons beneath its wings. Last-minute checks. The plane’s control surfaces cycled. Cain moved further along the catwalk, trying to ignore the drama on his right.

He saw a sponson below him, beside a column holding what looked like a signalling lamp or searchlight. The small outcrop looked deserted.

Zuiden knew his stuff, had cut loose during the main event. Hunt might not be unconscious, he realised. Perhaps he’d killed her — come here to drop her overboard. No, he couldn’t be up here. There were green-clad sailors further forward — a launch or recovery crew — and Zuiden wouldn’t have gone near them. The bastard wasn’t on the catwalk and now could be anywhere in the ship.

Another jet was waiting behind the shield while the first one ran up, the power of its engines depressing the nose wheel strut. The roar was visceral.

White flame thundered from the Tomcat’s tailpipes. He covered his ears as the sound became unbearable. The plane’s port and starboard lights came on and the white light on the tail. The crouching catapult officer swung his yellow wand in an arc to the deck, then brought it up to the horizontal like a lunging fencer. A green light winked out near a control bubble further forward. As steam slammed against the catapult pistons the aircraft rocketed down the rail, twin furnaces of flaming orange and, in three seconds, was flung off the deck.

Cain had instinctively ducked, found himself facing tie-down chains hooked from a rail and a red fire extinguisher labelled CARBON DIOXIDE. He rose, padded back through drifting steam, wondering how much hearing he’d lost.

As he passed the jutting sponson, he thought he saw movement. Was someone there?

He craned over to see more, could just make out a shape that looked like a boot.

Then a sailor appeared on the sponson — a burly black man who crouched and pulled at something. A flash of teeth but his voice was drowned by the racket from the deck. He seemed to be dragging on a second man’s legs — a man who lay prone on the grid. As the man was pulled back, he twisted. A man with fair hair, a pale stalk protruding from his pants.

Zuiden — with his dick out.

Cain vaulted over the catwalk rail and dropped to the platform below, landing beside the sailor a second too late. Zuiden, still down, had hooked one leg behind the man’s foot and smashed the other into his knee. As the sailor toppled, yowling as his leg collapsed, Zuiden chopped his throat.

Then Zuiden saw Cain and moved inboard as far as he could, aware that Cain’s breast-cannon wasn’t accurate. He had his pistol out and with his other hand was trying to zip his pants.

Beside him on the grid — the blur of Hunt’s splayed body, her top off and her clothes around her knees. The hatch into the hull was open. Zuiden would have closed it but couldn’t lock it. And the sailor had stumbled on the scene.

Cain registered it all in a blink. He felt welded to the deck, knew there was nothing he could do. If he moved his hand to the pressor switch, Zuiden would shoot and he’d be dead before the explosive slug went wide.

A launching F–14 shook them with a speech-defying roar. Hunt was stirring, coming around.

He looked at the rock-steady gun. He’d feel the jolt before he saw the barrel flame.

An endless second.

Zuiden’s savage grin. He edged toward the hatch — was gone.

C
ain went to the salt-sticky rail and looked at the creaming sea far below. It had been close. The sweat on his face was clammy with it. He turned back, stepped over the dead seaman and squatted beside Hunt.

She peered at his face then, felt wind on her flesh, looked down. She saw the sailor’s body, stared up at him again, uncomprehending — her full, perfect breasts transformed by moonlight to marble.

He yelled, ‘Zuiden.’

She felt between her legs, made a poor attempt to cover herself.

He said, ‘Zuiden knocked you out and raped you.’

‘That sailor’s . . . ?’

‘Dead. Zuiden killed him.’

She breathed heavily, eyes blank.

He got her dressed and helped her through the hatch away from the noise. She leaned against the side of the alleyway as if she might collapse.

* * *

By the time they were cleared through into EXIT, Hunt was herself again, which Cain didn’t consider an improvement. She said, ‘I’ll handle it from here.’

She left a message in reception for Rhonda then led him along a corridor and keyed a code into the doorpad.

The cabin was larger than his and featured a wider bunk. Its personal compost revealed immediately whose it was. On one wall was a poster in a frame.

The Suffolk Savoyards present
HMS PINAFORE
or
The Lass that Loved a Sailor

Cut-in photographs of cast members included an attractive, dark-haired woman about twenty.

He said, ‘You and Ron are an item?’

‘Objections?’

‘No.’

She sat on the bunk as the door-control clicked and the catch disengaged. Rhonda was in the room, leaning back against the closing door, her good-natured face now grave. She sat beside her lover, petted her, while Hunt told her what she knew.

Cain turned to a railed shelf holding bottles and poured himself a scotch. Above the shelf was a picture of an urchin peeing in a pond. A frog was leaping from the pond in alarm. The caption read: NEVER DRINK WATER.

When he turned back, Hunt was staring at the floor. Rhonda looked at him, livid. ‘Well?’

He told his version, ending, ‘I cocked up.’

‘Wonderful.’

‘And the flag bridge won’t like him killing one of the crew.’

‘Vanqua’s problem.’

‘I should have topped the bugger at lunch. It was a set-up. Like lunch was a set-up.’

She caressed Hunt’s thigh but didn’t respond.

‘Well, wasn’t it?’ he insisted.

‘Not mine.’ She stared at the woman’s perfect leg. Hunt sat immobile.

He swigged his drink, jaundiced by both of them. ‘I’d say Vanqua put him up to it. The insult in the conference. Then lunch. Then this. Because Zuiden’s a deadshit but he’s not mad.’

‘You need a reality check,’ Hunt said.

Cain said, ‘Don’t flatter yourself. The man’s a Grade Three. I chipped him at lunch and he looked guilty. I’d say Vanqua told him to bait you, then poke you.’

‘And to kill a sailor?’

‘No. He swatted a fly.’

Her smooth brow dimpled to a frown. ‘So why would Vanqua put him up to it?’

‘To get at Ron.’ He stared at his department head. ‘Well?’

Rhonda’s furious glance. She was back on the job. ‘You and Zuiden hate each other — hate each other so much you need each other. So your judgement might be . . .’

‘Come off it.’

‘He doesn’t understand you. You don’t understand him. And it bothers you both. Because you secretly admire each other. We used to call you Cain and Disable.’

‘Spare me the arabesques. What’s your point?’

She moved a protective hand to the younger woman’s thigh. As far as Cain could see the loving was one-way. ‘You’re full of theories without substantiation. What if he just wanted to sink the salami?’

‘I’ve given my opinion. The deadshit’s porked your girl . . . killed a sailor on this ship. Now what do I do about it?’

She stroked Hunt’s hair, thinking. ‘Be in Room C3 in half an hour. The meeting with Vanqua. Don’t volunteer any information unless I prompt you. Clear?’

‘Pellucid. But factor this in. The thing in Chartres. Rehana had drawn a “Z” on the sheet in her blood. I thought it might have meant Zia. It could have meant Zuiden — could have meant he’d sabotaged the operation. What if he did the job on Rehana before I got there?’

‘Ray, I know you want to help. But we’re all upset just now. The best thing you can do is leave the thinking to me and just — stay out of it. That’s an order.’

‘Shit.’ He upended his drink and left.

He walked through the sinews of the boat, cursing her and loving her too. Her attempt to be kind had made him feel old and useless.

Pat’s comment echoed in his head. ‘It’s over, Ray. You’re yesterday’s hero now.’

Room C3 was barely large enough for the small bolted-down table and six chairs. Vanqua sat at the table’s end alone, nodded as Cain came in. ‘The exceptional Mr Cain. Please sit.’

Cain sat on a chair at the side, determined to say nothing as instructed.

‘So.’ His sad face and speculative stare. ‘I still have no word of Murchison. What do you know?’

Murchison? What was this? They were back to Chartres discussing Murchison? ‘No idea. He wasn’t there when it happened. It was a cleaning job and fast ship-out. No time for head checks.’

‘Mm.’

Rhonda entered, sat opposite Vanqua, turned to Cain. ‘Tell him what happened.’

Vanqua listened to his account, said, ‘Yes, yes. I’ve been informed.’

‘And . . . ?’ Rhonda snapped.

‘I thought this meeting was a brief on Murchison.’

‘Fuck Murchison.’

Their conflict made the air vibrate.

Vanqua gazed at the lagged pipes above and stroked the muscles of his neck. Cain knew five ways to kill him by attacking that neck. The body was so vulnerable when you knew. ‘Jan tells me Mr Cain has been indulging his sexual tastes.’

Cain lurched forward. ‘What?’

Rhonda put a hand on his arm.

‘I suppose you’re aware what training her cost us? Millions.’

‘Let’s get back to the exploits of Zuiden,’ Rhonda said.

Vanqua made inconsequential sounds and waved his hands. ‘He’s been under great pressure, which has now been removed and . . . his natural . . . exuberance has emerged.’

‘Exuberance? What are you? A fucking epistemological realist? Cut the crap.’

‘We’re talking about a Grade Three.’ The surgeon pursed his lips. ‘He’s purpose-designed — just like Cain. Just as Cain is extraordinary, so is Jan. But in a different way — a destroyer.’

‘One you can’t control?’

Vanqua tutted. ‘No, no.’

‘So he had your leave to do it?’

Cain tensed at the remark. She may not have bought his theory, but was trying it for size.

Vanqua’s melancholy look became long-suffering. ‘No, of course not.’ He made placating movements. ‘He selected the woman he wanted but killed the man instinctively. I know that was painful for you and I deeply regret it occurred.’

‘You think I’m a dope?’

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘Not everyone who carries a long knife’s a cook. Explain the seating arrangements at lunch.’

‘I was trying to give an impression of unity. The whole thing’s been . . . unfortunate.’

‘You bet your bippy. This base is now as compromised as the Japanese Constitution.’

‘I know. I know.’ He bowed his head like a penitent.

‘And the navy’s going to gut you until you can see your mouth through your ring.’

He looked down, frowning.

‘What happens to Zuiden?’ Her lips were a line.

‘Yes.’ He rubbed his eyes with his fingers.

‘I suggest you decommission him.’

Vanqua recleared his throat. ‘Normally one would. But I’m afraid he’s too valuable for that.’

Cain wanted to thump the man. Why didn’t Rhonda tell him to get knotted? Then he had the notion that she was playing a role and that what was actually happening here he’d probably never know. He recalled one of the less questionable Hadiths: part of being a good Muslim is leaving alone that which does not concern you.